


Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by crossingwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 03:51:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2254839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s not a lamb, she’s <em>not!</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leapylion3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/gifts).



> Prompt Filled: Robb/Roslin - On their wedding night, Robb expects Roslin to be shy, bashful and self-conscious, but she ends up topping the hell out of him. (He loves every second of it.) (You have my heart and soul if Roslin sits on his face at some point, and my kingdom for her tying Robb's wrists to the bedpost.)

Walda has told her that it can be quite lovely—having a man inside you. More than lovely—fun. And that most men, for all their talk, will do whatever you ask them to in bed, as biddable as pups.

Ami has told her more than that, that cocks are all well and good (she even uses the word ‘cock’, and it makes Roslin flush just to hear it) but that hands and tongues are sometimes better. “Don’t,” Ami says with a wicked grin the night before she is to wed, “think for a moment that your pleasure will be inside you. It might be, but a surer fun will be in that little nub atop your slit. Have him rub that—or better. Lick it.  
  
Walda lets out a cackle. “Look at little Roslin, blushing like a maid. Will you blush like that before your husband?”  
  
“I—I—” Roslin stammers, and Ami says, “Don’t blush for a second. Men may say they like a maiden in their bed, but all men like it when all they have to do is lie back and enjoy it.”  
  
Lie back and enjoy it? Roslin can hardly believe it. From all the things she’s heard from her father, her brothers, her nephews, a man likes to  _take_  a woman, the way she’s seen a tom take a cat when the cat’s in heat, or the way a stallion takes a mare out in the paddock. That is the way of things—that much she knows.  
  
But Walda is married, and Walda makes no secret that she takes pleasure in her marriage bed and Ami…well…She knows that Ami has been taking pleasure outside her marriage bed for ages now.  
  
It’s all she can think of, truly, even as she says her prayers in the sept, her hand in King Robb’s as the septon speaks of devotion most holy. She blushes when she looks at Walda, who makes a lewd gesture with her hands, then elbows Ami at the sight of the heat rising in Roslin’s cheeks, pointing and the two of them giggle to themselves. Over dinner, things are even worse. His mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, whose face seems somewhat less lined in the celebration than it does on most days, tells her that she will make a fine wife for her son, and that she is sure that she will prove fertile. Her own father speaks of how on his wedding night to her mother, he fucked her (he’s drunk, and uses the word ‘fucked’ even as the hall laughs and Roslin wants to hide her face in her napkin) until dawn. King Robb—should she call him King Robb? Your Grace? My Lord? Robb seems too forward, and yet he is her husband by law now. What would he have of her? But she cannot ask him—squeezes her hand under the table and looks at her with gentle eyes. He is barely past his boyhood himself, just her age or so, though he grows a thick beard to hide his youth. She wonders if he is scared too, or if he has bedded down with the wanton women who trail the camps in practice the way her own kin have—or so she has heard.  
  
When the cry for the bedding begins, there is a roar of excitement, and his hand is torn from her even as her brothers lift her into the air, singing songs in praise of her and ripping the dress she had sewed so carefully at the seams. “Why Ros—what fine tits you’ve been hiding all these years!” calls Black Walder, and she feels a flush rise up her neck even as she tries to hide that same bosom. They throw her into her marriage bed unceremoniously and a moment later, her husband, naked as his name day appears in the hands of her sisters and aunts and nieces. He is handsome, and his face is as flushed as hers, she is quite sure, and his eyes are so very blue, shining like the sky above.   
  
“Don’t be a lamb—ride him like you would a horse, Roslin!” cackles Walda merrily as King Robb is thrown onto the bed such that his face is just over hers and his…his cock is just above her maidenhood.  
  
“That’s right then—out with you all,” the King commands and she hears footsteps recede and the doors close, though she does not look for she cannot look away from his eyes, big and blue and right above her.  
  
He pulls away from her slightly. “My Lady Roslin,” he says gently, taking his hand in hers, and his fingers are warm, his palms sweaty and she sits up, looking him up and down. His cock is stiff—stiff and far larger than any other cock she has ever seen, though she has not seen an erect cock on any man before. His stomach is rippled with muscles from the way he is lying, with a smattering of red hair just above his waist, trailing up to his chest.   
  
 _Don’t be a lamb—ride him like you would a horse, Roslin!_  Walda’s voice echoes in her mind.   
  
 _A surer fun will be in that little nub atop your slit_ , Ami had said before telling her to have her husband lick it if she could…  
  
 _He is just a boy_ , she thinks, looking at him.  _Just a boy, and I am just a girl, and we neither of us know what it is that we do_.   
  
“My Lady, there is no need to be afraid,” he says gently, sitting up now, the muscles in his stomach becoming more pronounced. “I will be gentle with you.”  
  
 _Don’t be a lamb_.  
  
She smiles at him, and leans forward and kisses him, taking his lower lip between her two and reaching out and running her hand down that trail of hair on his stomach until she finds his cock. “Roslin,” she says. “Your Lady, yes, but in your bed, I am Roslin.”  
  
“Roslin,” he says, and his voice cracks even as she takes his cock full in her fist and begins rubbing it up and down. His skin is so soft—softer than the velvet and silk she had sewn together for her wedding dress, and hot to her touch. He lets out a groan into her lips, and reaches for her hand. “My—Roslin, if I am to…if we are to…perhaps it would be best that I take your maidenhead first?”   
  
He sounds so timid, she thinks, and nearly laughs at the thought, for how is she  _not_  timid, holding her husband’s—the  _king’s_ —cock in her hand, but perhaps Walda is right, and men like it best when their woman is in charge. She ceases her pumping, and, more out of curiosity than anything else, drops her hand lower on his cock, releasing his shaft and taking his stones in her hand.  
  
Where his cock had been hard, these stones are soft, gentle, and he lets out another groan as she fondles them gently, toying with the slip of skin between them. He reaches out his own hand to take her breast, circling at her nipple with his thumb and pointer and she feels calluses there, and her breath catches in her throat.  
  
 _A surer fun will be in that little nub atop your slit_. They had been right so far, perhaps they would be still? And with her free hand, she takes his wrist and guides his hand down between her legs.  
  
“Roslin,” he says and she hears nervousness there. “It should be my—not my—” but she silences him with a kiss and keeps his hand only at the top of her slit, on that little nub that Ami had told her of and—oh. Oh yes. That was what she had…oh. She guides his hand in circles around it, feeling her own flesh begin to moisten and to stiffen beneath his fingers. He feels it too. “Roslin,” he breathes as his hand circles a little faster. “Roslin, does this—” and she kisses him again, this time slipping her tongue into his mouth to see what he tastes like, and his own tongue meets hers eagerly, and she takes his cock back in hand, holding it loosely and pumping it slowly—not enough to make him respond too strongly, but enough that he—  
  
A thought crosses her mind. It is a wicked thought, but a thought nonetheless, and she’s sure that if she does it, he will…But does she dare? Does she truly dare? So far, everything she has guided him to has…has…but this is a whole different matter. _What will Ami think when I tell her? Surely she would be thrilled. And Walda too—Walda will laugh harder than anything else._  
  
She pulls away from him, and looks him up and down. His cheeks are red, his blue eyes near black in the darkness of the candlelit room and he licks his lips looking at her, his eyes dropping from her face to her breasts to the hair between her legs and when his eyes meet hers again, she sees the stirring of confidence there. If anything, it is that that decides her.   
  
She pushes him down, and tugs at the cases on the pillows, removing the linen completely.  
  
“Roslin?” he asks, but she moves quickly, taking one of his hands and tying it to a bedpost, then repeating the action with another. When she looks back at him, his eyes are so wide, so astonished that she can scarcely believe that she had the gall to do it at all. She kisses him, stretching out her body next to his on the bed, curling herself around his side and rubbing herself against his leg, feeling her moisture gathering on the soft hair of his thigh. “Roslin—is this…is this quite how you’d like me?” His voice rises as though he can’t quite believe it. “I…I would like to feel you in my arms.”   
  
She kisses him. “You shall, I promise, Your Grace.”  
  
“Robb,” he says. “In your bed, I am Robb.”  
  
“Robb,” she smiles into his lips. “Fear not. Before the night is through, I shall lie in your arms.” That seems to mollify him, though he shifts uncomfortably. “But first…” she says and she wonders if she is drunk, or if some demon has taken over her body, for she must ask it, she must—“I would have your mouth.”  
  
“My…mouth?” he sounds nervous, but not scared. More as if he was not sure he understood her, the way she had asked Ami what she had meant when she’d brought up mouths for the first time.  
  
“Yes,” Roslin replies, and she rubs herself against his leg once again. “Your mouth.” And she kisses his throat, watching his face carefully. He is staring at her, his eyes wide, and she knows this was not what he expected on his wedding night. She can hardly blame him—it is not what she had expected either. But even as she watches his face, she feels his cock twitch against her leg. She nudges gently it with her knee. “It would seem the idea pleases you?”  
  
Robb licks his lips and she feels herself clench. “Yes, all right then.”  
  
She kisses him, keeping her lips on his even as she peels away her body from his and when she breaks the kiss she climbs onto her knees, never looking away from him. His eyes are wide, and she can see the way that they drop to her breasts yet again and then to that space between her legs and this time, he does not look away. She smiles to herself as she maneuvers herself such that she is straddling his face.  
  
And oh, she is not a lamb, she’s  _not!_  For even though the position is not quite comfortable, even though she cannot quite sit as she had planned for his arms, bound to the bed, are a little too much in the way, she is not a lamb at all, for what lamb would have her husband’s lips upon that most delicate place without letting him first even take her maidenhead? And Robb’s tongue…he does not touch her slit, that gap he must save for his cock lest he break her maidenhead with his tongue—oh what a thought!—but his mouth had learned from his fingers, learned from her hand guiding his between her legs and he circles at it, presses at it gently, breathes warm breath against her, and she knows that Ami is right.  _Oh Ami, if I’d only known how right you were_ , she thinks as she feels herself begin to tremble against his mouth. For nothing…nothing could be quite so good as this, as his tongue against her, circling gently over her flesh, lapping at her as she drips into his mouth, and Roslin throws her head back because everything is alive in her, and no matter what it was that she had thought would come of this, it certainly wasn’t this.  
  
“Gods,” she breathes, feeling her hips begin to pump against his mouth without really intending to, and she knows she should not take the gods’ names in vain, but how can she not with the feelings pulsing through her the way that they are. She leans forward, taking Robb’s hand on the bedpost in hers and looking down at him and in his eyes, blue and black and wide, and in awe of her, she falls apart, moaning, shuddering, gasping for air as the nub of flesh that Ami had told her about begins to pulse and she can’t quite understand what is happening, but oh—oh it is good and in that moment she knows why it is that Ami would sooner bed down with stableboys than go with an empty bed.   
  
She nearly falls off him as the pulsing fades, nearly falls backwards or sideways as his tongue ceases its work, for he knows, she can see in his eyes—content now, pleased with himself, proud—that he has done what she wanted, even if she did not know it herself. She manages to clamber off him before collapsing on the bed next to him, breathing deeply and only then noticing the sheen of sweat on her breasts.   
  
“I should unbind you,” she whispers to him. “That you may take your turn.”  
  
“I—” he blushes, his mouth is open and his lips are shiny and slick from her, “I…would have them stay…I would have you…”  
  
 _Ride him like you would a horse, Roslin!_  “I had thought you wanted me in your arms,” she murmurs warmly, gently, taking his lower lip between hers and sucking it into her mouth. She can taste herself, and she is salty, bitter, but good. Somehow, inexplicably, good.  
  
“I can. When it’s…when it’s done. I…I like looking at you.” He doesn’t blush this time, and she wonders what she has wrought this night.  _I have truly taken my King to bed, it would seem_ , she thinks,  _and he has liked it._  Were he not speaking the words, she would never have believed it.  
  
She sits back up, feeling weary, but not feeling nervous for what seems to be the first time that night. She slides down the bed, and straddles him, taking his cock in her hand and rubbing it. The tip of it is wet already, and his eyelids flutter closed as she circles the moisture over the head of his cock.   
  
She holds him beneath her, pressing his tip at her entry, then takes a deep breath and sinks onto him. It stings, and stretches, and she lets out a hiss and oh, how strange it feels, strange to be full of him, strange to have him, to have anything inside her.  
  
“Gods,” he breathes. “Gods, Roslin…”  
  
 _Ride him like you would a horse, Roslin!_  
  
And she lifts herself again, then drops, taking him in, and out, not letting herself stop to think how very strange it feels to have him inside her then out again like this, because if she pauses to think about either, she wouldn’t be riding him like a horse, she would be…she would be still and nervous and lamblike and she cannot be that, so she pumps harder above him, leaning forward and clutching at the furs with her fingers and letting the tips of her breasts trail along his skin, along the dusting of hair on his chest. His hips begin moving underneath her, his cock pressing into her when she sinks to meet it, and he is moaning slightly, his eyes closed for all his professions that he wanted to look at her, his lower lip between his teeth as he whimpers and pumps and whimpers and cries out and she feels a heat erupting inside her, erupting from him as his hips still and she feels him throbbing inside her.   
  
She reaches up and releases the pillow cases from the bedposts, then lets herself lie on his chest for a moment while he breathes, her fingers running through the hair on his chest and feeling the strong, swift beat of his heart under her ear.  
  
He wraps his arms around her, and twists slightly so that they are lying face to face in bed and when she looks into his eyes, she sees wonder there.   
  
“What have I done to deserve you,” he whispers.  
  
She smiles, but doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t know what to say. Now that they are both spent and warm, she feels—not quite the lamb, but nearly shy.   
  
He kisses her and she tastes herself on his lips, and even as his tongue darts into her mouth, she feels him slowly pull his cock from her. She wishes that he didn’t, but he does look at the sheet beneath them. She does too, and sees a dribble of red mixed in with the colorless moisture of his seed.  
  
“And a maid,” he whispers, then claps his hand over his mouth, blushing furiously. “Forgive me, My L—Roslin. I had merely…”  
  
She laughs gently. “I am a maid, Robb, or was. But I have  _sisters_ ,” she teases.   
  
And he laughs too, and takes her in his arms again. “You must thank them for me.”  
  
“I shall,” she says.  _I shall thank them for myself as well._


End file.
